Weight of Decisions
by Zaxarus
Summary: This is my first attempt to public a diary about a gaming playthrough. Hero is Nemain Aeducan, a noble warrioress from Ozrammar. It is not a complete story but a collection of oneshots.
1. Chapter 1 Sunbathing

**Sunbathing**

Sturdy stone at her back, warm rays of the sun on her belly. Nemain enjoyed the moment, brief as it would be. Had Gorim told her she would like to be outdoors only one year ago, she would have laughed at his face. Or smacked a fist in it. Inadvertently she smiled about the picture of her small fist crushing in his broad face. Not that Leliana would call Nemains hands small, strong and calloused from sword wielding as they were. But the bard was not a dwarf and so missed the right scale.

The thoughts must have shown on her face. "Memories, my grey warden? Nice ones? Or more the type of getting violent?"

An amused voice disturbed her pleasant moment and compelled Nemain to open her eyes only to see that damned elf sitting two steps apart, showing his knowingly smile. She hated it, every time thinking he could see too deep into her soul. After the past days the dwarven swordmaiden had the nearly overwhelming impulse to strangle him. Days in Ozrammar, her old home, which could never be her home again as even the lenient shaper had made clear. Thanks to her treacherous brother she was a barely tolerated outsider here, no more Lady Nemain Aeducan but only the „Grey Warden".

On the way from Lake Calenhad to the Frostback Mountains on every step she thought about Bhelen. How she would split his skull with a neatly placed swordblow. Arriving at the door she had a cool greeting from the keeper, barely polite enough for her new grey warden status. In the city quarters the reactions were mostly as expected. The more a person had known and liked her before her killing Trian, the more they reacted disappointed and abhorred. Seldom there were friendly words and Nemain had to collect all her inner strength to remain composed.

Hearing of the haggle between Harrowmount and Bhelen, it was clear for her from the beginning which side to choose. Speaking with Dulin Forender she had been already ahead thinking about how to topple down her intensely beloved brother.

And then: enter the enigmatic elf. Rambling about how weak Harrowmount was and Ozrammar needing a strong leader. How could he dare? To suggest an alliance with murderous Bhelen? Nemain teeth grinding, feeling her carotid artery swelling in memory of the scene, gave Zevran a sinister glance. The assassin hold composure, but barely, showing that he knew it had been a close call, nearly overstepping the line. To be right in his opinion did nothing to calm Nemain, shaking with anger, clenching her fists, nearly … very nearly … giving in to the urge of killing him on the spot.

Breaking off the discussion with the already irritated Dulin, she left Ozrammar, her furious face making clear she wanted to be alone. Throwing stones, chopping trees, smashing a pair of stupid bandits … thinking her an easy target … to bloody pulps, it cost her hours to calm down. To realize that this son of a whore had an astonishing grasp of Ozrammar politics.

Harrowmount was a good man. A niece uncle so to say. Fair, tolerant, cordial. But as a leader? In wartimes? Blight threatening it would be a very possible outcome Ozrammar to be eradicated with a weak leader on its top. Bhelen on the other hand … he had proven to be clever, strong and ruthless. There was nothing nice on him, nothing soft. But he would be a king Ozrammar needed in these times. Nemain shivered, thinking about statues erected in his honor. But she had to admit that neither she nor stupid Trian would be nearly a king as Bhelen.

Arriving at the camp, she surprised Zevran with decision to follow his opinion. It was the first time since declaring to let him live after the attempted murder that he clearly hadn't been sure about her reaction. Alistair dropped a coin in Morrigans hand, clearly regretting something. Losing the bet? Furthermore be pressed to endure Zevrans presence? Nemain mused what Alistair would say if he knew about his part in her decision on that road weeks ago? But that were thoughts for another time.

To say that Bhelen was surprised to see his sister without drawn weapon would be a grave understatement. Clearly there was no love between them, but after some long discussions he accepted that Nemain saw him as the new king and was ready to help him succeed father on the throne of Ozrammar.

Swaying some nobles to Bhelens side, killing some bandits to show his might. She'd won the tournai in his name, as much to further his aims as to show Bhelen that it also could have been other way round. It was a short-lived triumph, for it was clear that Bhelen accepted her as the better warrior since the beginning. Else he'd never chosen his treacherous route to eliminate her as a concurrent.

Now it would be an expedition to the deep roads. "Find Branka and sway her to support me. Or make sure she won't come back." They would be underground for days, perhaps weeks. Strange for her after months on the surface, how would Zevran fare with it? She sends an absent-minded look to Zevran, then braced her up and walked back to the stone doors of Ozrammar. Nemain hadn't to look to see his knowingly smile.

Oghren surely waited at the tunnels impatiently.


	2. Chapter 2 Road to Branka

**Road to Branka (Nemain Diary 2)**

The crackling sound of the camp fire was comforting. It would be the first night since more than two weeks not worrying about safety. Nemain didn't want to open the eyes, didn't want to see the abhorrent chasm only a few dozen steps away. She pretended to herself to be in a sheltered tavern back in Ozrammar, the air full of tobacco smoke and the delicious smell of dwarven beer. And the loud voices are those of drunken tavern patrons swaggering about the taxes and who will be the tournai winner next year. Nemain let out a sigh. Naturally she knew the blustering voices belonged to Oghren and Kardol, Leader of the Legion, about manly themes. Who killed more darkspawn, who could drink more and other themes she really didn't want to hear, some of them more … organic.

Kardol was her host tonight, his Legion camp giving a secure rest before crossing the bridge to the dead trenches. The group needed this night after moving thru the deep roads for 16 days if she counted correctly. 16 long days wandering the tunnels full of amazing signs of the glorious past. 16 short, often disturbed sleeps to rally their strength anew. Nemain took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of roasted nug. She prepared the meal herself, her thoughts wandering back to dear mother who insisted on learning a fistful of hearty recipes, ignoring the matter that she probably would have a cook at hand all of her royally life.

_There's nothing better than a good meal and a fresh ale to give a man the feeling that you care about him. Regardless of whether you want to direct him to your opinion about something or make him feel romantic, prepare a meal, serve it, hear to his ramblings whatever he wants to talk about and you'll have your way. Believe me, darling._

To her annoyance a little tear followed her memories of mom, not getting better when she saw Zevran to look away, averting eye contact and suppressing a smirk. She seldom showed any emotions apart from anger. It would be a sign of weakness otherwise. And she had to be strong, be a leader, pressed into this position because Alistair, senior to her as a grey warden and way more experienced on the surface things, had refused to take this position.

_Alistair._

She didn't know what to think of him. Back in Ostagar it had been so simple. Exiled from Ozrammar, forced to live on the surface among humans, he was a light of hope, so needed to soothe her broken heart, loosing family, home and dear Gorim all at once. He made her laugh, diverted her mind from the fights ahead, and was a really good friend. And his looks. *sigh* For a human at least. Not that he could compare to a stout dwarf.

She almost giggled at the thought how a night with him would be. She would have to be very careful, being way stronger and heavier than him. But the weeks since leaving Lothering had been disappointing. He was nice to her, yes. Made compliments, alright. But why for the hairy asses of the ancestors couldn't he be more … forthcoming? Nemain wasn't accustomed to this reluctant behavior. She wanted to be gripped with strong hands, kissed hard from rough lips, thrown to the blanket … Nemain blushed deeply about the following thoughts.

Opening her eyes for only a small slit she saw Zevran watching her, his face hidden behind a piece of nug. How much had he guessed her wandering thoughts? Too much certainly. For a moment Nemain considered throwing something at him, something hard or better something unpleasant, but with a sigh she closed her eyes anew, pretending not to see anything.

Four days ago Alistair finally kissed her, kneeled before her, hesitated some long moments and then … the kiss. So soft, so sweet, so … boring. Any fire in your veins, wussy? Since leaving Lothering his constantly recurring laments about Duncan had annoyed her. His stories about a hard childhood and nobody understanding him in the chantry. Layer for layer his tears washed away her sympathy, her patience. But this kiss was nearly too much. For weeks her only objective – apart from killing everything moving in sight – had been the prospect of bedding him. But now Nemain wasn't sure if he was worth the effort. Possibly it was only her renowned mule head that prevented finishing this never ending and happening story.

_The kiss_.

It happened in a cave on the way from Orthan Thaig to the trenches. The group - Nemain, Alistair, Morrigan, Zevran and Oghren – rested after some hard fights. They missed Leliana's songs and stories, having her left with Sten after she twisted her knee in a fight, frantically evading the blows of an ogre. Nemain felt sorry about that moment, felt guilty not having shielded the minstrel. It had been her duty to throw her plate armor in the way but she had missed. Sten was the only one able to carry her back to safety alone and so the two companions started their way back to Ozrammar.

It was a gloomy evening, only interrupted from the conversation of Zevran and Oghren. A very odd pair these two were. It was a surprise to Nemain Alistair choosing just this moment to give in and kissing her. And then understanding came. This glance Alistair throwing to Zevran, saying this maid belongs to me. As if Zevran would be interested in her anyway, giving up any flirting tries after realizing the beginning romance between the wardens.

Nemain had been angry, interrupted the nice moment turning away from Alistair. Was it too early? Made i something wrong? His whiny blubbering making it hard for Nemain to soothe his doubts, not to say where he could stick his waiting behavior and his possessive demeanor. She sighted. It would cost her weeks to repair the damage done, even if she wanted it. She wasn't sure.

With thoughts about a knowingly smirk Nemain drifted away …


	3. Chapter 3 Regret

**Regret (Nemain diary 3)**

"It had been the right decision."

Zevran spoke the words with determination and dignity, in spite of his aching jaw. The Elf hoped that he would not lose a tooth after being hammered by furious Nemain. His left eye already swelling shut he had a little trouble seeing the reactions from the rest of the group. Oghren, drunk as ever, didn't realize much of it. Morrigan showed a mix of amusement and not understanding as if she wanted to say _What is the problem all about? _

And Alistair? He had a lucky moment, showing a broad grin about Zevran being beaten up. Of all group members he should have been the one understanding, the one helping her. But the ex-Templar clearly fetched less of the whole argument than Oghren. Regardless whether the cause of Nemains turmoil nor the simple fact that Zevran easily could have avoided any attack from the dwarven lady, at least in her momentary state.

o0o

One week before …

_They're so many. Hundreds. Thousands._

They stood on the bridge, looking down with awe into the chasm where a massive horde of grenlocs, hunlocs and ogres was readying itself to flood the lands with tears and blood. Even Oghren was impressed, at least a little bit. "They would give a nice fight, something to talk about later." *belch* With a smooth movement Zevran fetched the empty mug, slipping from the fingers of drunk Oghren, before it could vanish into the chasm. "Nice gal." Oghren took the mug, ignoring Zevrans scorn, secured it at his belt with shaking fingers.

Zevran saw the concern in Nemains face, the angst about the future of her folk. In the last days there had been several discussions between Alistair and Nemain, as Zevran had overheard. Alistair, full of childish trust in Arl Eamon. Nemain, fearing it would not be enough. Zevran wasn't sure either. Arl Eamon ill as far as they knew, Loghain a traitor and possibly mad. Elves … there never had been many elves. And who would hope the mage to be saviors of the world?

No wonder Nemain fearing it not ending good and her folk standing alone against hordes of the blight. And so she began to speak with Oghren about the anvil. If he could be brought back into use, produce golems to give Ozrammar a well needed advantage in the grim days ahead.

o0o

Five days before …

In his nearly two decades with the crows Zevran surely had seen a royal sum of backstabbing, poison usage and treacherous behavior. But what had befallen Branka to do this to her people … Hespith … the broodmother born from a dwarven … he could not forget the pictures, nor understand. Even Oghren was trembling a little bit in his support of Branka. "Get her out of here and she'll be right, sure." Zevran wasn't sure about it. Someone able to do this was so far away from any moral standard, he couldn't express in words.

o0o

Three days before …

Finally they had met Caridin. Zevran saw the awe in Nemains face, understood her feelings about speaking with one of the most famous dwarven paragons, thought to be dead since centuries. He told about the making of golems, the usage of dwarven souls to bring them to life. Not so dire, he thought, being 10 feet of stone, incredible tough and mighty. Not something for him, but surely others would jump at the possibility. Why should he want to destroy this marvel? Branka joined the fray and a frantic discussion followed about usage or destruction of the anvil.

Nemain held her head, blocking out the rambling discussion. Oghren supported Branka because … it was Branka. He didn't count. She would ask Mabden, her fierce Mabari, before relying on Oghren in this matter. Morrigan spoke about the unlimited possibilities to examine the anvil. And Alistair was babbling about morale. Yay, she knew about it, not necessary to prattle on. Either you have morale in your guts or no word will uncover it. Only Zevran had been unusual taciturn, only inspecting her in silence.

"What do you think, Zev? What do you advise me to do?"

Zevran snapped back from his somewhat dreamy state to the present discussion. Why of all people did Nemain ask him over the matter? Only marginally realizing it to be the first time Nemain calling him „Zev", he wondered how to response.

"Now, my dear warden, a difficult question it is, yes? The anvil would be easy to exploit, not? Redoing the old crime of using unwilling souls. But on the other hand, this anvil is very mighty indeed. Would give Ozrammar and your brother a good ass in the sleeve in case of the grey-warden-alliance not going as well as you hope. You really want my advice? I'll give you one: leave the anvil intact and let Branka do her work as she wishes to. Perhaps not the advice you wanted to hear, but this it is."

And so she decided, followed anew Zevrans advice to his eternal surprise. They had to kill Caridin in the process, left the anvil with Brankas promises and a crown for Bhelen in her backpack. And some nightmares …

o0o

Now …

Three camps had passed filled with Nemains nightmares about docents of chained dwarves hammered from a mad laughing Branka into stone form. Three days of Alistair bemoaning the decision, nothing understanding, not helping, only increasing Nemains bad feelings. Zevran saw her crumble under her decision, each day a little bit more. He really wasn't sure why he cared, why he felt sorry to see the difference to the strong warrioress of the weeks before, full of fire and short temper. Years later he could only guess what had driven him to begin a discussion with Nemain, full knowing how she would react.

And now he stood there against the stonewall, Nemain gripping his vest, smashing him repeatedly against the granite, every time a little bit weaker. His head dizzy, blood flooding freely from a laceration at the back of the head, he saw her anguish, tears flooding freely down her face, washing away her grief, releasing Nemains heart from its iron grip.

It wasn't over. It would take days, if not weeks, to get over it. But the healing had begun …


	4. Chapter 4 Family Matters

**Family matters (Nemain diary 4)**

Coronation day

"My sister has done a great favor to Ozrammar."

Zevran felt the impact of Bhelens words immediately. Until now it had been a very hard time for Nemain. Showing no feelings to old friends greeting her with condemn, calling her exile or simply not reacting in any way to her presence, the dwarf clearly had been heartbroken in her old home.

Now they'd returned from the deep roads, bearing the Paragon-crown and news about the anvil of the void and Brankas fate. Bhelen had become king, Harrowmount killed. All hail to the king, hail to the royal House Aeducan.

Zevran chuckled, but quiet. After the official part with much hooray and toasts from the assembly, Nemain had been invited to the private rooms of her brother. Apart from Bhelen and his adjutant Vartag Gavorn only a good dozen of his most fervent supporters were attending. More than one reserved or curious look had been shot at Nemain and her escort. With the allowance to bring two companions along, Nemain had made a very strange decision.

Himself, yes, that was alright. Being the chief advisor of the Grey Warden, yes? Always whispering the best path of action into her ear and so. Zevran had to bite his teeth together to prevent laughter. But the third person … alright, not being Alistair was a good start. But why in maker's name not pretty Leliana? Or fool smelling Oghren?

No. Nemain had chosen Morrigan, witch of the wild and of the sharp tongue. She even found a beautiful dress - Zevran really had no idea where in this town full of dwarves – and he had to admit Morrigan to be a more than only a little bit delicious sight to look at. The slits at the sides revealing her long well-conditioned legs, the dress close-fitting at her flat belly, the pinned-up wonderful hair. Yes, Zevran, and don't forget to look away before those ice-cold eyes dart you into oblivion. Hastily he looked away and to the attending dwarves.

Since their long discussion some weeks ago – Bhelen finally believing Nemain not plotting any revenge – the nowadays dwarven king had been respectful but distant to his sister, always calling her Grey Warden. And she answered with „Lord Aeducan". It was only a political alliance, had nothing to do with family and home.

But now with only two words „my sister" all had been changed. Zevran hadn't to lay a hand on Nemains shoulder to feel her shuddering. Another time she had to pull her strength together, keep cool and answer in a respectful manner, something about how glad she was to be able to do House Aeducan a small favor and that she would ever … blabla. Zevran was more interested in her lovely eyes. They showed great gratitude and relief for her brother's words. And Bhelen? A very soft nod of the head, the slightest sign of a smile.

Vartag breached the consternated silence with an invitation. "There will be much to do for Lady Nemain on the surface. I hope she'll accept my hospitality while preparing her next journey."

Nemain nodded in approval. It was clear for Zevran that this hadn't been spontaneous in any way. All had been planned, the words masterly spoken to transmit the message: _this is not your home now, but perhaps later. You've done a first step. _

The change was astonishing. Reserved but friendly, searching Nemains proximity, thanking her, wishing her good luck for the days to come. Zevran tried to shelter Nemains back against the sudden rush of „friends" and was more than a little bit perplexed to see Morrigan doing the same on the other side. _You'll never understand this one, Zevran_.

Hours later they finally left the celebration. Zevran and Morrigan exhausted, Nemain walking on dreamy clouds. The family mace – a gift from her brother – in her belt. That word – sister – in her heart.

Legionnaire Darn Tinlak

Three days had passed. Quiet days with bubbling bath water, hearty – and good cooked, oh maker, Zevran couldn't stand Nemains roasted Nug anymore – meals, strong ale in the tapster. Every evening Lelianas audience grew. As did her repertoire of dwarfish smutty drinking songs. Nemain spend her days with brother Berkel, speaking with old friends and preparing the next voyage. Yesterday he watched her polishing a silver ingot with a thoughtful look. It had been one of the more precious pieces of booty from the deep roads. Zevran had hoped to somehow convince her of giving the barren to him. He really liked the touch of cool, noble metal.

But Nemain only shook her head, saying softly: "Another time, Zevran. There will be other ingots. This i need for another one. Another present only buyable in Ozrammar." Till now he had not been able to discover what Nemain bought. Or for whom. *sigh*

He looked up as the door warden escorted a dwarf to Nemains rooms. The armor said Legion of the Dead. He carried a heavy present wrapped in durable cloth. That could be interesting. He followed the pair and without invitation he silently slipped into Nemains room, watching the following discussion from the rooms back.

"Milady Aeducan. Thank you for receiving me in this unannounced visit. I'm Legionnaire Darn, once member of the House Tinlak and bodyguard of Trian Aeducan. Without my leg been broken that day, i would have been there in Aeducan Thaig. I would have fought you, hopefully dying in an honorable way. But the ancestors had other plans in mind. I don't bear a grudge against you, Milady, be assured. The real reasons of that fight i don't know. I don't care. But I'm sure it was an honorable duel and no murder.

But I'm not here to dwell on thoughts about the past. You've done much for the Legion, rescued the memories and our insignia. Master Kardol had promised you our help in the coming fights. But he also wanted to give you a present. This breastplate is for you. Please accept it as a token of our gratitude and our approval of the brave deeds of you and your companions."

Obviously moved Nemain accepted the gift, unwrapped the breastplate. It was nearly the same as worn by Darn, but made from silverite and the legions crest somewhat interwoven with the symbols of House Aeducan. Nemain gently traced the crest lines, begged Darn wordless to help her donning the armor. Zevran eyed the dwarf suspiciously. You can never know, Zevran. But Darn didn't brandish a dagger or something. And Nemain was really a gorgeous sight in the shimmering plate.

Before leaving Darn had a last message for Nemain, disturbing the good mood of Nemain and Zevran alike. "As is heard you're looking for Gorims whereabouts. He left Ozrammar a few days after you. I saw him as he was ordered to visit your father. Don't know what they spoke about, but the next day he quit. He was heading to Lake Calenhad as far as i know. I hope you'll be successful in your search."


	5. Chapter 5 Decisions

**Decisions (Nemain diary 5)**

NEMAIN

"If there is any hope of rescuing my son, then i have no fear of death. But it is your decision, Grey Warden."

Struck dumb with horror Nemain gaped at the Arlessa. She too? In the last weeks the warrioress had to learn the hard way that the other group members chosed difficult decisions going her way. Especially Alistair showed a remarkable lack of initiative since the days in Lothering. But the Arlessa … surely a noblewoman like her has her own mind. And what with Bann Teagan? He had shown leadership and courage in the last battles. Why by the ancestors called they on Nemain to decide?

Her eye wandered to Jowan. She didn't like him and trusted him only a very short way. More than one time she'd flinched as the blood mage described his advice to solve the problem at Castle Redcliffe. Sacrifice a human being, send a mage into the fade, kill the demon there, and rescue Connor. What could be the alternative? Kill Connor of course. Nemain winced at the thought. Kill a child. She wasn't sure she could do that, but resolved to never ever demand this from any of her companions.

Then there was the Circle of Magi. She could travel there, ask the mages for help. But she could not be sure of the situation there. The Templars back in Lothering told something about earnest problems. How had the mages fared so far? And it would cost days, four at least, even with no problems on the way. Much can happen in four days. Village and castle inhabitants were in no shape to fight another battle.

Nemain had chosen the daunting task to bring Mary the news of the death of her husband Tomas. Brave Tomas, full of fear but never hesitant to defend his family, his village. In contrary to such people as Lloyd and Dwyn. Both had survived, both she had to force with drawn mace to bolster the militia. Mayor Murdock had been wounded, it was not sure if he would survive. Others had perished. From the four knights only one was fit to fight; the others killed or wounded freeing the castle from its undead inhabitants. No, Nemain couldn't risk a new attack thru a bound breaking Connor-demon.

Coming back to consciousness Nemain realized that she stared at Zevran, must have stared at him for minutes now. He looked sadly, raspy came his words: "My dear Grey … i mean … Nemain, i can't give you an advice in this matter. It is not a question which way to choose. You know as i do, there is only one possible. You have only to decide if you want to spell out the correct way or not. It's as simple as that. Or as hard."

He stepped a little bit closer, whispered nearly unhearable under the distrusting eyes of Alistair: "I can't advice you. But if you want … let it be my decision this time. I'll spill it out and go thru with the task. This one time you can … "

ZEVRAN

Zevran never had the opportunity to end his sentence. Already a little obviated to Nemains ear, he felt himself being pulled forward. Short and intensive he sensed Nemains lips on his cheek, a tiny tear dropping from her eye on his skin. Then she was away, ordering Morrigan to follow her in the neighboring Arl's study room. Striding forward she neither saw Alistair's glaring eyes, Leliana's smirk nor Zevran's fruitless try to hide his blush with a bland face.

His heart pumping and his cheek burning like fire he could do nothing than stare and try hard to give not away his feelings. He only wanted to help Nemain, remove the weight of the decision which one to kill, mother or child. Her reaction he had neither anticipated nor hoped for. The last touchings of the dwarf had all been a bit painful. Noting the glare of Alistair, Zevran sensed his surprise switching to furious anger. A decision had to be made about life and death, a decision even Zevran didn't envy Nemain to do. And all Alistair rambling about was this kiss of HIS Nemain.

The door opened. Zevran saw something small and glittering vanish in Nemains pocket. Someone else he would have guessed to have stolen something, but not Nemain. But he had no time to wonder, Morrigan announcing that Jowan would cast the ritual spell to send her into the fade. Alistair's appalled objections cutting short with an angry wave of her hand, Nemain asked the Arlessa being sure about it all. Then all went so fast …

Two days later … ALISTAIR

He sat by the fire, his thoughts a whirling dance in his head. How could … why did she … what now? Alistair was perplexed. This damned blood mage – now again in his cell awaiting the awakening of Arl Eamon – had conducted his ritual. He had no idea how Nemain persuaded her, but Morrigan went into the fade. Long hours passed, then she returned exhausted, the boy awakening the next morning. Fortunately he remembered nothing of the occurrences. Never could Alistair forget the sight of Isolde dying at Jowan's hands. Cruel as she had been to him in his youth, he knew the Arl loving her intensely. And she had sacrificed herself to save her son.

Staying silent as long as he could, feeling the anger building inside him more and more, this evening he went to Nemain, demanded an explanation. Maker, perhaps he was a bit too forceful, too loud. But her answer … it was nothing like he had hoped for. First she justified her doing, why killing Isolde was the only possible course. He couldn't remember exactly what she said, all being overshadowed by her following accusation Alistair being a coward, never making a decision, always letting it to her. And afterwards blaming her for wrongdoing. Alistair was angry. Nemain was wrong. And that damned elf too. He should have killed him there on the road.

Poking with his sword in the ashes Alistair thought about the end of their discussion. Nemain said something about not being possible to be together without trust and other bullshit. *grrr* In truth it had been completely other reasons, he was sure. The romance had not been going well the last weeks. Since this bloody elf had been there. Oh yeah, Mrs. Perfect, kissing is not enough. You want more. Certainly this prick-driven bastard had no problem in obeying your wishes.

Alistair was hurt, feeling justified as he noticed neither Nemain nor Zevran to be seen anywhere in the camp. Have fun, he grumbled.

MORRIGAN

The witch poured some tea in a cup, holding it to Nemain. The dwarf had been in her aside camp for two hours now, showing no wish of leaving or speaking with her. Morrigan knew why. She had heard the discussion between Nemain and Alistair, knew the outcome. Certainly all in the camp would, loud as they had been. Wondering about herself, she felt sympathy for her small friend. Weird as it had been, this friendship – forcefully and in no matter understandable driven by Nemain – prospered in the past weeks. The warrioress and the witch seemed to have nothing in common, but …

Morrigan thought about the mirror. Nemain had given this marvelous mirror to her down in the deep roads on their second foray. Typical, one of her nuts actions. Golden, jeweled, dwarven factored. It must have cost a very large sum. "No, i want nothing in return. It is simply a gift. A gift for a dear friend." Morrigan gulped. How could she do this?

Then there was paying time, as expected. Was it not? Morrigan wasn't sure. Back in the castle Nemain had ordered she by side, declared her problem, asked if Morrigan would go into the fade to fight the demon. "I can only assume what that really means, what a danger it poses. But you are the only one here who could do it. Please do it. I don't ask it as a friend, be sure. I know you think something like that to be a weakness. I ask it as a boon. A boon i will repay to you whenever you ask something from me."

Morrigan had accepted the deal. She already knew which boon to demand. But the same time she felt the bond of friendship tightening. Should she be angry about it?

Neither Morrigan nor brooding Nemain saw the lonely figure in the bushes, watching them intensely, and a warm smile on his face.


	6. Chapter 6 Unlikely Matchmaker

**Unlikely Matchmaker**

The sizzling noise caused Zevran to lower the breaches and look at Leliana. The last hour they had spent in utterly silence, him repairing some cuts from the last fight, her drinking disgusting smelling tea she bought back on Ozrammar. Why someone could drink a tea causing memories of spoiled mushrooms, he couldn't understand in any way. Now the pretty bard had tossed the rest of her drink in the fire – good thing indeed – and was staring blankly in the flames.

Zevran knew this look. Always it had to do with some type of romance problems. He sighed, a little too late attempting to be quiet. To his relief Leliana didn't react, was too far away to notice anything around her. The elf knew the reason and it caused him more than a little bit of trouble. The reason for his trouble and Lelianas mood was nearly 5 feet tall, one hundred thirty pounds heavy and bestowed with a temper which could cause a rabid werewolf to cover in fear like a child.

The last weeks had been very hard, especially on her. Nemain had been pressed to make choices she never wanted to do, the last only a few days past in Castle Redcliffe. She was shaken from the experience and Zevran had several times wondered how he could help her. Nemain surprised him several times and followed his advice in Ozrammar and Redcliffe, thinking higher of his political logic than Zevran himself. But on the other hand he had absolutely no success in getting her over her bad mood afterwards.

One time or another he thought about offering her his massage technics to get a little comfort. But every time he held back. Although Nemain seemed to like the discussions with Zevran, she never showed any more than professional interest in him. It made Zevran a little bit unhappy, more so as he didn't exactly knew why he felt so. Was it the pride of a conqueror, spurred by the disinterest of his new object of desire? Or something more?

Nemain was very unusual even for him. Fostered in a royal family, knowing the good life with always warm water and a good meal, but otherwise reared to be a leader and warrior. Knowing the techniques of formulated fights, but sometimes surprising Zevran with her inventive usage of street fighting in the most bloody and dirty way. He would never admit it, but surely Zevran was a little afraid of her. Not in the prospect of a fight but in a tent …

Some days ago he heard Sten teasing Morrigan with wild stories about Qunari mating habits. Something about padding her with armor and giving her a sniffle to bite. Clearly he wanted to make her uneasy, but now Zevran wondered whether a night with Nemain would indeed involve such things.

A soft rustle caused Zevran to look up. Leliana stood up, darted an unhappy glance to Nemain, standing watch at the camps edge, and plodded to her tent. The two women had a connection from the beginning, a little bit odd but none the less close. Nemain showed an honest interest in Leliana's belief, wanted to learn about the maker, going even so far as to support Brother Burkel's plight in getting the permission to preach in Ozrammar. And day for day Leliana had been a little bit more enamored by the dwarven warrioress as everyone in the group realized. To be accurate: everyone except Nemain.

Leliana often seeked to be near Nemain, told little stories, made her laugh – something Zevran would love to accomplish himself – interspersed nice compliments and all in all made a real good job in wooing her. With absolutely no success in her doing, obviously Leliana's despair grew from try to try. As did Zevrans amazement. Why didn't Nemain react, insignificant whether negative or approving?

Zevran stifled a cry as the needle bored in his hand. He was so stupid. It was so easy. Nemain pure and simple didn't realize what was going on, because she never had been in a femme relationship. Speaking with her about his past, the whorehouse, his experiences as a lover – her showing not a single tip of uneasiness – he thought her all-round versed in these things. But no, that was only a sign of her usual tolerance, her attitude not to judge others. It had nothing to do with her own experience. Leliana could woo her all day and Nemain would never comprehend the subtle hints.

And now, my little Zevran, what shall we do now? He sent a musing look to Leliana's tent, then to Nemain and a crooked smile sneaked on his face. As it seemed, it was matchmaking time. And saddening as it was, he wouldn't be the lucky one. But that was irrelevant, he had to do a friend's job now and if it meant to shove the pretty dwarf in the bards tent, then so be it.

Strolling over to Nemain he felt his jealousy being replaced by a warm feeling. Nemain deserved a pleasant night and if he could not be the right one, then Leliana sure was a good replacement. Nemain send him a wary look, but remained silent, eager awaiting Zevran to say something.

"Hello my dear Grey Warden." Now he had her clear interest. She really despised to be called like that and perhaps it had to do with him opening by this means the more unpleasant discussions.

"I sat there at the fire and thought you looking really tired and tensed. Not a pleasant look indeed. Perhaps a few cozy hours in a warm tent could help you to relax a little bit." The angry look of Nemain made him wince a little bit. Hastily Zevran continued: "I could stay watch here for you in the meantime. " That stopped Nemain cold in her tracks. She looked so confused, Zevran nearly had to laugh.

"My tough Grey Warden. It seems that you are a little unaware of what is going on around you. Remember our discussion about my … experiences as a lover, do you? Back then you claimed that it didn't disturb you. Was it true? Only true in respect of me? What about others? What about yourself? You like Leliana much, yes? She obvious sees you as a friend. And more. Astonished? Why so? She never disguised her past, her mixed experience. And clearly she sees something in you, something worth wooing. But you didn't react. You caused her discomfort. And this she never deserved, don't you agree?"

Nemain several times wanted to interrupt Zevran, every time holding back, eyeing the elf with a very confused look. Hesitantly came her answer: "N..no. I didn't want her to … i mean i … she's very … nice. And beautiful. And graceful. And charming. But … are you sure? She said these things to woo me? I never expected … i mean … you know i only … err … with men … you understand."

Zevran couldn't believe it. Blush. Really. Nemain blushed. He had never thought that to be possible. In the same time he felt pleased with himself and totally jealous. Hastily Zevran resumed his speech before his feelings could get in the way.

"I'm sure. And knowing how you are … open to new things and never the coward to shy away from new experiences … I'm certain that you owe it to yourself and to her. Go to her tent. Speak to her. Clearly i can't say you where it will end. But you both like and respect each other. It's a good foundation. Give it a try. Have faith. If you don't, you'll surely regret it later."

Actually in the end Zevran nearly had to shove the hesitant dwarf in Leliana's tent. With every step he realized more what he was doing here. Not only first time he played the unusual part of the matchmaker. In fact he didn't do it for anyone but for a woman he … liked. Liked enough to step aside because he thought another one would be better for her. At least at this point. And Nemain would spend her first night with another woman. Hopefully it would please her. But not too much.

Sometime later Zevran asked himself what crazy thoughts had brought him to this place, standing watch and feeling the urge to walk over to Leliana's tent, eavesdropping to the quiet conversation and what else was going in there.

Hopefully he would never feel so stupid again.


	7. Chapter 7 Lectures of the heart

**Lectures of the Heart**

"Give it a try and tell me, perhaps I may surprise you." Nemain stood in front of a very nervous and blushing young elf named Cammen and tried to find out which problem bothered him, surely a very grave and life-threatening one as Zevran expected in amusement.

"There is a girl named Gheyna. She is in my heart and I would do anything to persuade her to be my wife. But I'm not a hunter yet and she refuses me."

Zevran tried really hard to suppress a smile. Asking Nemain about problems of the heart was a very daring idea. But perhaps she surprised him too.

"I see. No hunter, no real man, no family feeding. Is that her line of reason?" With Cammen agreeing in silent despair, Nemain escalated her involvement. "Have you tried to woo her? No? Made gift? Made compliments? Kissed her?"

Cammen answered question for question with shaking his head, gaining deep sighs from Nemain and deep smiles from Zevran.

"All right. Training is incoming. Zevran?"

Zevran snapped back to attention. _What now?_ With a puzzled look he watched as Nemain grabbed a casket and ordered him to stand beside it. Could it be? With a sudden heavy pounding heart he followed her order.

"You must know, Cammen, women really like compliments. Surely Zevran can give you some advices about pretty romantic lines. Myself I can only say something sounding simply: Hear to your heart. Close your eyes and imagine her. Think about what you like about Gheyna. Her eye, her hair, her stance, how she speaks, dances, moves, the lines of her figure. And express that in your words. They don't have to be the words of a poet, but it is important that she feels you're honest."

Zevran gulped. Yes, he could make up some lines like that. And he could make them sound honest. But now he was following Nemain's words only to think about what he liked about her. Her character, her compassion even with this elf she hadn't known an hour before, her temperament. He even liked her regret when she was trembling from thinking about what she had to decide in Ozrammar and Redcliffe. The lines of her figure, yes, that too. So feminine and muscular at the same time, a mix only dwarven women could accomplish. How would it be to touch her?

"But woman like another thing too and that is a good kisser. And this is something we can train."

Nemain boarded the casket and ordered a very blushing Cammen to kiss her. Step by step he went nearer, his blushing more deepening and barely able to look at the dwarven lady. The following kiss was very short and remembered Zevran of a time long past. Nemain rolled her eyes and was hard pressed not to grab Cammen and response with a more forceful kiss. The image of frightening the young boy with her female temperament caused Zevran to hide his smile behind his hand.

"You think this to be amusing, Zevran?" Now it was time for Zevran to be frightened, facing her angered look. "You think you could do better? Show us some of your splendid kissing abilities you're so proud of. Cammen watch and remember."

This was false. Surely he had dreamed of kissing her for weeks, but not so. But he had no way to evade this and so Zevran leaned in and placed a kiss on Nemain's lips. They were large and surprisingly soft. Somehow he had anticipated her lips to be harsher.

Seemingly Nemain was not impressed. "That's all? Zevran, I'm disappointed. Can't you do this any better? Perhaps … we should ask Leliana. Do you mean kissing her would improve your performance?"

His suntan hid Zevran's blush.

It had been a very long time since anyone had been dashed from his kisses. The words nagged at his heart and the elf shook his head. "I'll try to hone my kissing." With much more energy he embraced Nemain and kissed her long and hard, his heart pounding anew and disappointment crawling thru his veins as Nemain reacted in no way to his kiss.

"Err, yes, better, but not really good. Forceful kiss is nice sometimes, but any Shem could do that. Cammen needs an elven kiss. You know, Zevran, with feeling. A kiss that Gheyna can't think anymore, a kiss that Gheyna dreams to be in a type of heaven, feeling Cammen's love. Perhaps it was a stupid idea …"

Zevran interrupted Nemain, gently grasping her cheeks, wandering about her face with his looks. His palm touched her ear feather-light, placing a single strand of hair behind it. With a warm smile he traced the lines of her face, the eyebrows, the nose, the powerful yet soft jaw. Slowly Zevran pulled Nemain nearer, took another look in her eyes before melting his lips with hers, first very light, feeling butterflies in his stomach, deepening his kiss slowly, changing his stance so that he could embrace her stronger, sensing her large bosom against his breast.

One hand went up behind her head, entangling in her thick hair, the other reaching down her back, halting above her ass as he felt her body stiffening. Lengthening the kiss Zevran's tongue entered Nemain's mouth, the elf not thinking about this surely not being visible for Cammen. Nemain reacted in kind, her body feeling so soft and strong to Zevran's grasp.

At last they ended the kiss reluctantly, parting only a small way. A soft smile showed on Nemain's face. "That was better, more elven like. I knew you could be a good teacher." Zevran only nodded, struck silent by his feelings and watching emotions in Nemain's eyes he had not expected to see there.

Clearing her throat Nemain turned away from Zevran and faced Cammen. "Have you seen enough or have we to repeat the lecture?" Zevran heard the wish in Nemain's voice for a reenactment or was it only his own desire to feel these soft lips anew? A deep sigh escaped his lips as Cammen ascertained that he had seen enough.

"Good. Then think about what I said about compliments and try your new knowledge on Gheyna. I wish you luck." With a hint of a smile to Zevran his marvelous grey warden walked away.


	8. Chapter 8 You can run

**You can run**

The feeling of her kiss still lingered on Zevran's lips. His head swam with emotions, beautiful yet frightening. He had to speak with her, now, before all got out of hand.

After solving the problem the heart problems of Cammen and Gheyna, the young elven couple, Nemain left the group in direction of the nearby lake. What should he say to her? Would it be good to excuse him? Perhaps it would be the easiest way but he didn't feel sorry. From kiss to kiss the sensual feeling intensified, the initial reason of teaching Cammen how to kiss long forgotten. Instead of satisfying Zevran's desire to kiss her it only fueled his cravings, his wishes for more.

Immerged in his thoughts and feelings Zevran made two grave mistakes. The first not thinking about what Nemain would do after reaching the lake. The second was to walk openly not using his rogue skills to be unhearable and invisible but to trample thru the bushes as a Shem would. Zevran needed some seconds to grasp what a sight met his eyes. In the lake a good ten yards from the edge stood Nemain, naked as her ancestors created her. The hairs no more pigtail-bound but fleeting freely over her shoulders, water running down her back to the line of her bottom.

Slowly she turned to face him, showing her heavy breasts. Silently Nemain and Zevran watched each other a moment, then, slowly, the dwarven warrioress moved towards him. Stunned he watched her, being reminded of a nature force moving thru the water, water dripping from her breast as the water line went down to reveal more and more of her body. He should say something, anything. Zevran's mind raced but nothing prudent came forward. It was only seeing her reaching down for her shield that it got to Zevran's mind it would be a wise idea to run.

Whirling around he sprinted away as a frightened deer would. The fun of the sight – a naked dwarf only wearing a shield running after a dressed elf – didn't came to his mind, but only the fear what she would do for watching her naked, something he tried some times in the past, sometimes partly successful but never to her pleasure. Around a tree, over a bush, the gap increased. Hope went up only to be stopped cold by something hitting him hard in the knees.

_She had thrown her shield,_ was Zevran's last a bit amused and a bit awed thought before his head crashed against a tree and all went black.

The movements awakened Zevran. All moved before his eyes, taking some moments before he recognized the sight, comprehended his situation. Nemain had slung him over her shoulder, dragging him back to the lake. Thru his larger size his head dangled dangerously near her bar bottom, giving him a marvelous look on the working of her back muscles. His legs she pressed against her breasts, her  
>right hand holding them with a thumb between his legs, surely only for better grasp. He tried to move only to detect his hands and feet to be bound. With a snicker Nemain commented:<p>

"It's so nice from you to always have rope packed. Very thoughtful of yours."

Reaching the lake she sat him down, leaning against a tree. With a smile she pulled something from the pile of her clothes and began to put a band of fabric over Zevran's eyes. It was her breast-band, Zevran could smell her scent. Pleased with Zevran being totally blind, Nemain pinched his cheek before entering the lake again. Now he could only hear her washing her body and his memory – having seen all of her body only minutes before – constructed vivid pictures.

She was singing in her own tongue, the words incomprehensible but the sound ringing bawdy. After a while Nemain left the water, stood very near to Zevran, toweled herself long and extensively, sometimes unwantedly touching him in the process sending showers thru his body. The odor of some oil she bought in Ozrammar, unfamiliar but not unpleasant, entered his nose. Her powerful hands rubbed the oil on her skin, making loud noises and creating pictures of her actions in Zevran's mind.

Content with her body care Nemain donned her clothes at last. She placed a kiss light as the wings of a bird on his lips before going away.

Minutes passed, minutes which led Zevran alone with the pictures in his mind. At last heavy feet neared, the heavy smell betraying who neared. Nemain's scent was replaced by a belch full of alcohol.

"Hey, pointy, back in Ozrammar it had been the women to be bound when I bathed."

Grinning but holding his head out of Oghren's alcohol smell Zevran replied: "You never bathed in Ozrammar."


	9. Chapter 9 Leaving Marks

_This short story is dedicated to Ventisquear_

**Leaving Marks**

The last days had been difficult, the return to the Dalish no more easy than the fights in the forest. How do you explain to these people that their beloved leader had to die to end the curse? That he had been the source of so much evil, so much pain? Others would have chosen an easy path, had smoothed the expected troubles with a heart-gripping story about Zathrian's sacrifice. Alistair had even suggested such a course. But not his warden, not his Nemain.

Shortly Zevran wondered since when he had begun to think of her as 'his'. Since the kisses lesson two weeks before? Since he actually shoved her into the tent to Leliana? He wasn't sure. But in one thing he was very certain: that he knew the dwarven warrioress much better than her supposed brother-in-arms.

"They deserve the truth; they deserve to know what happened. And the werewolves deserve it too. I'm not going to allow that the Dalish hunt them down for deeds they had done without own fault. Zathrian had been a great leader for a long time, but he had also a darker side, a fearsome side. The crimes against his family have been avenged a long time ago. The humans that had been convicted to live as werewolves without committing any crime themselves should be able to live free from the past. And it is time for the Dalish to leave their anger and hatred behind. How could the live happy lives in the future without understanding the past?"

It was this mix of steel-hard backbone and compassion that he lo … liked so much about her.

It had been a long night, a night of heated discussions. For a while many Dalish had been unwilling to believe, unwilling to trust a Durgalen. But there had been voices of reason and voices of trust, Dalish that owned Nemain a favor, elves that had come to think highly of her. And there had been Lanaya, Zathrian's first and successor. She understood, she sensed Nemain's honor and the truth in her words as she had known that dark spot on Zathrian's soul; the spot she had tried to overlook for so many years. Not all had been forgotten, not all Dalish wanted peace, but in the end they had sworn to follow Lanaya's word, her word about truce. Zevran hoped that it would hold.

Leaving these thoughts behind for a while he further searched for his warden. She had been neither in the companions' camp nor with the Dalish, but Gheyna was able to give him directions, her young lover Cammen watching closely over the young girl. Not that it was needed. This was another thing that troubled the former assassin. Certainly he had not given up to flirt with everybody and still he found much delight in his little word fights with Leliana and causing red ears of Alistair, but … the intent had changed. He continued only to have some fun, not to really have success. Zevran wasn't even sure what he would do if unexpectedly one of his companions complied with his advances.

A soft smile appeared on his face as he detected her. Nemain sat on a log, the parts of the old elven armor she had found around her. Obviously she had used the past hours to scrub them clean of the dirt of past centuries. The veridium material was now visible again and with a thoughtful expression on her face Nemain traced the lines some great artisan had forced into the material so long ago, creating beautiful images of elven life and the creators.

His smile deepened as Zevran saw the tip of her tongue showing a bit between her full lips as she pondered about … something important and historic, he was sure. Lips that were equally strong and soft as he only knew too well since her kisses. He had dreamed of these kisses afterwards, dreamed of every look she sent in his direction before and after the kisses. What could they mean? What did they promise?

Leaving her chainmail and greaves behind Nemain wore only some old and often repaired leather pants together with a sleeveless vest that she had scavenged from some unlucky bandit a few weeks before. Nemain had shortened the vest but still it was not broad enough to encompass her muscular shoulders and her magical bosom, now doing more to present her feminine charms than to hide them. Unwanted pictures of her striding thru the forest lake with nothing left to his imagination invaded his mind. Before his thoughts wandered too far in that direction he declared his presence with a loud harrumph.

"Oh dear, as it seems my little pocket assassin has awakened at last. Are you full of vigor and mischief as I expect you to?" Her broad smile wavered not an instant as Zevran shot her an unconvincing troubled glare.

"I'm a full grown and competent assassin, please don't forget that. To belittle my many and wonderful abilities hurt my soft elven heart. Not that I expect otherwise from such a cruel, wicked lady."

"Oh, lady it is now?" Becoming more serious she switched to the armor. "How do you like it now? Without the old coating I think it looks really nice."

_Not as nice as you_, Zevran thought but he responded instead: "Yes, it is very beautiful now." Adding with a smirk he continued: "But I fear it would not fit to your splendid body. Certainly the elven smith had not in mind such a voluptuous sex goddess as you as he created the armor." The words caused too many ripples in Zevran's heart to be spoken as lightly as he wanted. But to his relief Nemain seemed to take them with humor. Shortly a glint of mischief showed in her eyes before she rose to her feet, wandered to Zevran's side and held the breastplate against his body.

"Yes, I see. It is more likely formed to enclose a haggard body such as yours. Especially the upper part would favor nicely your 'curves'." She knocked against the modeled breast of the plate, where the smith had tried to leave enough space for an elven bosom. "It would lift your bosom enough to make him …"

Nemain shrieked in played surprise as Zevran tried to grab her. She jumped back and blinked heavily, her broad smile with the strong white teeth belying her mock fear. Deflecting his grabs with the breastplate she still held in her hands, Nemain brought hastily a tree between her and Zevran while the elf growled a bit and continued to hunt her around her protection.

"Help, help, my pocket assassin is going wild." Nemain giggled and that proved to be her undoing after a merry chase around some of the trees and bushes. Looking at Zevran a split second to long she tripped over a root and crashed into a bush. The moments she needed to escape its grip were all what Zevran needed to close the gap. With a roar and his hands forming the claws of a predator he jumped on her back. Normally Nemain could have simply out forced his tackle but in the wrong moment a new laughing fit rocked thru her body. Zevran slammed into her and both went down. Some seconds later Nemain laid on the ground, Zevran above her and the breastplate between them.

Switching wildly between smirking and grinning Zevran looked down in her face_. These eyes, the nose, the sweet lips_, in the last moment he suppressed a deep sigh, something much more fitting to a soppy juvenile. Zevran's thoughts about a ransom he wanted to haggle from her were interrupted by a little cough_. Damn it_. "Am I interrupting something?" Before he was able to respond to Leliana with something very unfriendly, Zevran felt himself being overpowered by the not so helpless dwarf as he hoped. Moments later they had switched their positions and it was Nemain who grinned down. Without words she pressed the breastplate against the elves body and wrinkled her nose. Padding Zevran's shoulders she got up and outreached her hand. "Come on, old man, I need your help. Let's carry the armor to Lanaya."

Two hours later they were still at Lanaya's aravel, Nemain explaining to the keeper, Varathorn and Sarel what she had learned from that elven ghost in the ruins about being an arcane warrior. While he could learn nothing from that for his own benefit it was very interesting for Zevran to witness how much Nemain had been able to recall from that short moment of connection, especially as these things about magic would be so foreign to her. Somehow Nemain had created a kind of bond to that ghost, a bond of thoughts, memories and emotions. He should ask her about that connection later, ask her what she thought and felt about it. But for now he was thankful to sit silently near her and listen to her voice.

A few hours later the companions and the elder elves together with those Dalish Nemain had especially helped like Cammen and Gheyna or the hunter Athras gathered at the central fire. Alistair went to Nemain's side as he often did when it came to 'officials' while Zevran took a place farther away and near Leliana. The bard listened intensely with an expression as if she tried to remember every word for later poems. Varathorn sat beside Lanaya, something wrapped in a blanket at his feet. But it was the keeper that addressed the group.

"We owe you more than we could ever hope to pay back. And that you did it without expecting anything besides us holding true to that treaty only deepens our gratitude. This afternoon Nemain gave us something that is perhaps worth even more, something we couldn't hope to gain back after so many years: memories, memories of times past as our people were able to merge magic and metal in the arts of arcane warriors.

We thought about a way to show you our gratitude, to give you something to remember this moment. I know you're a very practical woman, Nemain. But … you two showed us that you care not only about the great things but also the small problems, the problems that sometimes cause so much trouble in our hearts."

While Lanaya paused a moment to look at Gheyna and Cammen, her smile causing their ears to assume a pink color, Zevran wondered shortly where this was going. Certainly Nemain deserved a token of gratitude but what had Alistair done aside from being a warden? Hastily he forced the frown away from his face before his gaze returned to the keeper.

"You two have entered the Brecilian Forest together and tomorrow you'll leave, but the forest will be changed forever. You'll leave your marks behind, marks in the ground as well as in our hearts and minds. We're sure that you will continue in leaving marks in the world, changing it for the better of us all. With that in mind we want you to take this with you."

Varathorn unwrapped the package and two pairs of matching leather boots became visible, Dalish leather boots artfully crafted from the best leather of two kinds. On light brown base leather Zevran saw the patterns of animals crafted from a dark red hide. Lanaya took the first pair, broad and very heavy with bears on the sides, and gave them to Nemain. Shortly Zevran wondered about how Alistair's massive kicks should be able to enter the slender second pair with the wolf patterns as Varathorn outreached them to him instead. Zevran blinked furiously at the elder elf. Disregarding his surprise and the gasps of his companions Lanaya continued.

"We hope that these matching boots will be a physical sign and witness to your emotional bond for a long time as you wander the width of Ferelden, leaving marks in history and memories."

A heavy boot stomped on Zevran's foot as Nemain walked at his side and smiled broadly at Lanaya and Varathorn. "This is a marvelous gift; we both thank you and your people very much. Don't we, Zev?" She smiled and blinked at Zevran while her foot pressed even more on his toes. Hastily he closed his gaping mouth partly to suppress a hiss of pain.

"Ye … yes, we do. Thank you, Lanaya." Gaining back his mind he grabbed his boots from Varathorn's hands.

The conversation turned to other things and minutes later Zevran sat alone on a log, Nemain felt miles away. He hadn't to look up to see the smile on Leliana's face as she whispered: "may these boots be a sign of your bond". Zevran felt the urgent need to throttle the bard. _Later_, he thought, _later_.


	10. Chapter 10 Emotional Bonds

**Emotional Bonds**

Autumn in the Brecilian Forest, certainly that was a very special experience. The forest had changed in these weeks they had been there. From a healthy and living green the leaves had taken on a rich mixture of red and yellow shades. Everywhere they sank to the ground around them as if the trees were saying farewell.

Nemain sighed. Not only had the trees changed but she too. It had been a change in her she wasn't able to grasp and understand. Every time she tried to 'listen' to her inner feeling they evaded her mind, slipping away as wet soap would.

"What troubles you, Nemain" To her surprise it wasn't Zevran who asked her. The assassin had been near her since they left the Dalish camp, obviously wishing to speak to her but unable to find the words or courage to start. He wore the new boots as did she and perhaps he was even so thinking about them as she had done since yesterday. What had Lanaya seen in her, what had she felt about Zevran? Had it only been an error, a misunderstanding? Or had the keeper really been able to look into her heart? Nemain was unsure about that. How could the keeper, Dalish and a young one to boot, know something she wasn't able to understand herself?

Leliana embraced Nemain shortly and repeated her question. "Something is troubling you, Nemain. May I help you?"

The weak and unsure smile on the dwarven warrioress' face was so untypical for Nemain that Leliana was relieved that she had started this conversation. Nemain kicked away a loose branch laying in her way, her expression thoughtful. "It is … odd. I mean here in the forest." Walking together Leliana kept silent and waited for Nemain to continue. The silence lasted some minutes and the bard nearly feared … but suddenly Nemain sighed deeply.

"Trees, bushes, grass, branches on the floor, the smell of rotting leaves everywhere and all this other things around me, they are disturbing."

That she hadn't expected. Leliana thought that Nemain would be brooding about her feelings. Since they had spent a night together she felt very close to Nemain. It had only been one single night and she didn't expect that occasion to recur in the near future. Not that she wouldn't wish a reiteration but she was sure about Nemain's very hetero sexual nature. For her it had only been a kind of relief and a new experience but certainly the dwarva felt only friendship for the bard. It was a friendship that Leliana reciprocated. And exactly this friendship now was the reason why she felt the need to push Nemain forward on the road of romance.

In a way she was grateful that Zevran had convinced Nemain to spend a night with her. Leliana had been smitten for a while and as Nemain needed something to help her to find composure the bard had to experience this night to realize that it was not love she searched but friendship and perhaps a bit of fun. Now she was an onlooker and as such she was able to see Nemain and Zevran more clearly.

Nemain was surely much more experienced than could be expected from a maiden of noble background. She was very outspoken and granted with a sweet sense of humor. In the last weeks she had tried to deal with Zevran in her normal unsubtle and easygoing behavior. But every time when it came to make 'the step' she backed away, shy as a young girl. For Leliana this was a clear sign of deeper emotions, emotions that denied Nemain an easy way to handle the 'matter'.

Zevran was an even more problematic case, but one she could re-enact very good. As a bard she had started more than one affair in her live out of professional reasons, affairs in which she had been well advised not to fall into the trap of emotions herself. Certainly Zevran would have had the same experience, using sex as a way to get close to his mark. The assassin was very outspoken about sensual things and usually very easy going about it, more than once proposing Nemain, her or Morrigan and even Alistair his 'services'. But in the last weeks she saw in him something she hadn't expected to witness: simple raw fear.

This fear could only have one cause; Zevran was anxious about admitting his feelings, feelings that were far deeper that he allowed himself to have, feelings that his crow masters had gone great lengths to whip from his heart, bluntly extricating these emotions from his heart with hot irons and sharp knives. Even Leliana was not really able to grasp how his childhood could have been and more than once she had felt the need to kill his teachers for causing this much pain on a helpless child.

"There are no stones in the forest. I can't feel the earth below me, the waves of the deep stone." Forcing her mind to the present conversation Leliana thought about Nemain's words.

"You miss your home, yes? I liked Orzammar very much and even with the dark hours we have spent in the deep roads I understand what a kind of change it must be to be here."

Nemain endowed a weak smile to Leliana, her troubles in no way soothed as it seemed. She shook her head before she continued. "Certainly I miss Orzammar. And I miss the feeling of stone around me. But that's not what is troubling me." She stopped shortly and looked around before she neared one of the trees, a birch with a silvery-white bark. Softly she put her hand on the tree and padded the bark gently. Her next smile was much more emotional than before.

"These trees, these plants, this … abounding life around us. You know: it is very strange for me but in the same moment I like it." She looked very puzzled as she asked Leliana: "Isn't that strange, isn't that odd and crazy? I'm a dwarva, born from the stone and someday I will rest in the stone with the ancestors. But here I am and I love the trees around me, love the feeling of soft earth, grass and leaves under my feet. I even feel sorrow about leaving the forest now and wish I could stay. Am I becoming insane? Am I losing my dwarven-kind? The Dalish call us Durgalen, children of the stone. But a child of the stone I am no longer."

Leliana put her hands on Nemains shoulders and looked into her troubled eyes. "You are Durgalen; you are a child of the stone. But you're more than that. You're very special, able to open yourself to new things, to new emotions. No traditional dwarf could solve all these problems, could understand the Dalish and forge bonds of friendship with them. Your mind is open; your heart is willing to feel. I understand it as a gift of the maker, this ability to be at home everywhere and not to die from homesickness. You see the good everywhere, the good often even the inhabitants aren't willing to admit. How many dwarves would have been able to help the Dalish and the Werewolves? How many dwarves would have received such a gift?"

The bard pointed at Nemain's boots to switch the theme of conversation. Nemain's frown and seeing Zevran flinch showed her that it perhaps wasn't her best idea.

"The … the boots are very nice. I had similar before when I lived with the Dalish in Antiva for some months. But I left them behind with all else that reminded me of that time." Zevran's words reminded Nemain of the evening he had spoken about his parents, his dalish mother and the woodcutter she had lived with for a much too short time. For a while she walked silently beside Zevran, Leliana pulling back a few steps. "It was a nice idea. This comparison of marks on the ground and in history and all that I liked that." Nemain nodded but said not a word. Zevran looked to the ground as if there was something very interesting to see. "This bond she spoke about …" Her heart missed a beat and the dwarva paled. "I only regret that Varathorn hadn't crafted more pairs of matching boots." The elf's laughter felt a bit false and uneasy. "I mean this bond of … friendship, we all feel it, yes?"

Nemain's face showed a puzzled look and a scrap of sorrow. Her voice was very coarse. "Friendship, yes?"

"Of course," Zevran didn't dare to look into her face. "We're a big family with a sweet sister, a grumpy brother and … I wonder what Sten's position could be."

"The visiting uncle always complaining about the bad changes," Nemain answered distracted.

Zevran tried to laugh about it but anew it was unconvincing even to his own ears.

It was some hours later that he realized that Nemain had switched back to her old boots. "The others were pinching," was her only explanation.

And somewhere back a pair of slender hands picked a pair of dalish boots from the ground, an odd expression on the beautiful face and pushed them in a backpack.


	11. Chapter 11 Bury or Burn

**Bury or Burn**

Hastily Zevran evaded the unpeeled potato Leliana was throwing after him.

"Yes, yes, I'm going." He tried to soothe the bard with his gestures but she only glared at him. He had only tried to ease the situation with Nemain, hadn't he? No reason to be so angry with him. Minutes after they reached the spot for their nightly camp Nemain had been stomping away into the woods. She even left behind her unbuilt tent and her face had shown clearly that she had no interest in anyone's company.

_I don't fear her, I don't fear her_. Zevran was repeating the sentence like a mantra. And somewhere deep within he knew that he really didn't fear her but only his own emotions. And then there was the very possible outcome of any relationship he could have with her. Someday he would leave her. Or he would hurt her. Or … Zevran shuddered as he thought about …

"ARGH". The cry brought Zevran to an instant stop. He ducked behind a tree. Had she detected him approaching? Warily he looked around the tree.

"We … are … friends … we … are … only … a … family." Each word was accompanied by a kick of her heavy booted foot against a poor tree, the bark already broken in half a dozen places. Scattered around her and the target of her fury laid some papers.

Nemain stopped her kicking and rested her hands against the tree, her had following moments later. Zevran dared not to move as he watched her. Obviously she tried hard to steady her breath and after a while she turned around, inattentive to her surroundings. Very weakly she kicked one of the papers; then she slumped on the ground, all power leaving her hearty body.

Distracted she picked them up and began to read, wording too silently to hear anything. Her shoulders began to tremble anew in rage, as he thought. It was only as she leaned her back at the mistreated tree that he saw her tears.

She started anew to read the lines, but shuddered. "Friends … friends," she whispered, her hands crumpling the paper. Disgusted she threw it away, the paper landing a few yards away from her on the ground. Apparently too exhausted to move she looked at the paper as if it was some kind of disgusting insect. He would like to fetch it, but there was no chance to get near enough without being detected.

Zevran sensed a cramp building in his left leg but he feared to startle her by any move. So he concentrated on watching her, looking at her hands, her legs, her shoulders, always evading the sight of her face.

After a while she turned around, went on her knees and slowly collected the papers. She piled them and put some twigs on them. _She'll burn them_, Zevran thought horrified, his mind racing how he could sidetrack her.

"Nemain? Neeemaiiin." In the distance he heard Alistair call and never had he liked that voice more. The dwarven warrioress looked up, then down to her papers. "Nemain?"

Another shout caused her to sigh. Hastily she shoved some foliage and stones over the papers before she stood up and hurried away, her mumblings about a "bloody stupid Templar" causing a smile on Zevran's face. He waited a minute until he was sure that Nemain was away before he left his hideout. His leg hurt, the cramp forcing him to hobble to the small pile. Zevran wiped foliage and stones away and gripped the papers.

Tenderly he flattened them. Something was scribbled on them. Instantly he recognized her writing, the small letters she used, clear, punctuated and without twirls. More than one word was blurred by a drop of tears. Looking over the papers he ordered them until he found the last one, a kind of letter, the others being drafts and unfinished tries.

Slowly his eyes wandered over the words, his voice speaking them very silently, slowly getting louder and more passionate.

_When I see your golden skin_

_My heart is full of sin._

_My loin is getting warm,_

_If you hold me in your arm._

_For the sight of your cute pointy-ear,_

_If would wrestle with every bear._

_At the evening to have your hug_

_Is better than a roasted nug._

_For the touch of your marvelous leg_

_I would barter my last beer keg._

_To feel your lips in a kiss,_

_Is causing me sweetest bliss._

_We would be a splendid two,_

_Others are thinking that too._

_When I was able you to fetch,_

_I made the most precious catch._

_In my stomach I feel a hive_

_When I think about spending my life_

…

The last lines were scrawled over. Nemain obviously had searched for a way to rhyme _anywhere_ and _declare_ and never came to an end. Zevran lowered the paper. His mind needed some moments to realize that he was staring at Nemain, the warrioress standing only a few steps away, her face a mix of fear and sorrow. He hadn't heard her to return, he was incapable to say how much she had heard him reading. But her eyes …

"That's … that's mine. Give it to me …" Her voice was coarse and faltered several times.

Zevran was unable to answer, unable to move. He looked at her face, at the paper. Concurrently it was one of the most ugly and most beautiful pieces of poetry he had ever seen. Simple and strong words that declared her exactly the same emotions. Zevran had to start a few times before an understandable sentence left his suddenly very tight throat.

"I would like to keep it. But I would give it back if you really want to." He stressed the word 'really' and watched her intensely.

For some long moments she pondered about it, then she shrugged, her voice trying to ring unburdened. "For all I care keep it. It was only a whim, written out of boredom."

Zevran believed not a word and Nemain knew it but he was incapable to express that, his fear returning with enough force to quench any truthful answer. "Perhaps I could use it someday if I need some inspiration."

Nemain stared at him, wanted to respond, gulped hard. Then she simply shrugged, turned around and left, walking away to the camp with somewhat unsteady steps.

Zevran found his leg immovable for a long time.

_When I think about spending my life_


End file.
